


Three Times John Went Into Sherlock's Room and One Time He Didn't

by katznhund



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Past Drug Use, Reference to character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katznhund/pseuds/katznhund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Covering the time period from shortly after A Study in Pink to after The Reichenbach Fall, several instances when John finds himself in Sherlock's bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Symphony for One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mid0nz's Sherlock writing challenge using on props from the 221B set. I researched everything the best I could, any factual errors are mine alone, I apologize in advance for any there might be.

The phone that lay next to the laptop was ringing. It was the third time in the last ten minutes. John frowned and put his newspaper aside. The phone stopped just has he was about to leave the comfort his chair. He relaxed back into it and picked up the paper from the side table. The electronic melody began again.

"Oh for...," John stood up and grabbed the mobile. He recognized the number, it was that detective inspector, Lestrade, from the pink case.

After breezing through the kitchen to grab some toast, Sherlock had returned to his room earlier that morning. Phone in hand, John knocked on his flatmate's door. There was no reply. He knocked again. Nothing.

"Sherlock?" John pressed his ear against the door, the room was silent. "Sherlock, are you alright?" He slowly opened the door.

In the short time they'd been living together John had only caught glimpses of the other bedroom in 221B Baker Street. Sherlock could be intensely private at times. Army life had taught him that everyman needs a space that's his own, this room was Sherlock's.

He poked his head through a crack in door. Sherlock lay in his bed, eyes closed, his blue dressing gown spread out over the sheets giving him the illusion of floating on water. He had on a set of massive headphones with a snaking cable attached to a long CD player mounted to the wall. John realized he'd seen the player on the odd occasion the door had been left open but hadn't registered what it was. The sleek silver bar along the top and visible disks made John previously think it was art of made from old discarded CDs nobody wanted since the rise of ipods and mp3 players.

Sherlock's arms lay across his stomach. His hands made small movements as though conducting a symphony. His forearms, however, never moved from their place on the sides of his abdomen. He was still except for the flicking of his wrists and long fingers.

"Sherlock, your phone."

The world's only consulting detective held up a hand to silence him then returned to his personal concert. John leaned against the door frame and waited. He wasn't sure why he was waiting but he supposed the song wouldn't last forever. There was a sudden flurry of movement, an elaborate flourish, and then the hands folded together neatly.

"Tell Lestrade I'll call him back after I've listened to Chopin's solo for violin."

John stared at him, Sherlock didn't remove his headphones, he didn't even open his eyes, he remained in perfect stillness on the fluid blue silk. Then his hands began to move again. This time his fingers pressed invisible strings while the other hand held a sightless bow.

"Right," John sighed and closed the door behind him.


	2. Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a fight with his brother, Sherlock leaves and Mycroft gives John a task.

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair and turned the telly up a bit louder. Mycroft had come by to talk to Sherlock. He knew Sherlock preferred to avoid face to face meetings with his older brother and after the few times John had met him, he didn't blame Sherlock in the least. However, Mycroft was here and the two were shut up in Sherlock's room.

His friend was shouting now and John tried hard not to listen. He wondered if he should go up to his own room to give them more privacy. The door to the bedroom flew open, banging loudly against the wall.

"I've had enough of this. I am not a child, Mycroft!"

"Then stop acting like one." The older Holmes didn't raise his voice, he didn't need to, he knew exactly how to push his brother without such theatrics.

Sherlock grabbed his coat from the sofa and a moment later the front door downstairs slammed shut. John looked from Mycroft to the empty door of the flat and back again.

"I'm going to need your assistance, Dr. Watson." His voice was calm and even, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "I think tonight will be a danger night and I need you to search my brother's room very thoroughly before he returns."

"What? A danger night?"

"Ah,  I see your relationship has not yet progressed to a point where Sherlock has told you about his past. You see, several years ago my brother went through a bit of a rough patch and started partaking in certain illegal activities. I was constantly having to get him out of trouble. I think tonight he might need to be watched in case the temptation to return to old habits proves too great."

"Should I go after him?"

"I'll make sure nothing happens while he's out. I know all the familiar places." Mycroft gave John a knowing smile that unnerved him. "No, you'll be of far greater use here. It would be inappropriate for me to remain any longer so I'll leave this bit of detective work to you."

"What exactly am I looking for?"

"Do I really need to spell it out for you?" He slid on his coat and grabbed his umbrella from the hall. "I suspect you'll have at least three hours until he returns. I should speak with Mrs. Hudson before I go. Good night, John."

Slightly dumbfounded, John tried to process what just happened and the conversation that followed. After Lestrade's drugs bust he had suspected as much but it still left him feeling surprised and strangely empty. He often forgot that he and Sherlock had other lives before meeting each other. Everything was so different now, it was easy to not look back.

John got up and walked to the threshold of the bedroom. In stark contrast to the rest of the flat, Sherlock's room was remarkably tidy. Perhaps some of the books could have been put on the shelves a bit neater but there were no stacks of papers or tables with equipment cluttering the space.

He scrunched his eyes closed and ran a hand down his face. How was he supposed to do this? Sherlock noticed everything, there was no way John could go through the other man's things without him knowing. And what was he looking for? Actual drugs? Paraphernalia?

John knelt down and peered under the bed. Nothing but dust bunnies.

_Right, because who hides drugs under their bed? Think, John. Where do people usually hide things?_

_In their drawers._

On the far wall of the room was a dresser, it was as good a place to start as any. On top was a small decorative jar with a faded postcard leaning against it. Next to it, a small wooden keepsake box. Carefully he opened the lid. Empty. John suddenly wondered if he should be wearing gloves while doing this. He wouldn't put it past Sherlock to dust his own room for fingerprints once he knew someone had been in there.

Looking up, John noticed an old black and white photograph of a man. He had a large forehead and crooked looking mustache. He looked familiar yet John couldn't place him. He squinted to read the small white letters at the bottom, "Edgar Allen Poe." Right, Poe, the guy who wrote the poem about the talking raven. Why did Sherlock have a framed picture of Edgar Allen Poe above his dresser? Why did Sherlock do a lot of things?

John opened the top two drawers of the dresser. Socks, lots of them, all neatly sorted by color and pattern. He stared at them for a few moments. Of course Sherlock would organize his socks. He couldn't be bothered to get the milk or do the washing up but he could organize his socks. John sighed and carefully removed them one at a time, laying them out in order on the bed.


	3. Is There a Doctor in the House?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mishap with a patch of ice means John has to play doctor to Sherlock. They discuss Sherlock's choices in wall decor.

"John, I told you I'm fine."

"You keep saying that but you called me "mummy" when I first asked you who I was."

"A simple mistake."

They were back at Baker Street after another eventfully evening in one of London's less desirable areas. They'd been chasing members of an underground gang when Sherlock found an icy patch in the alley. His pricey dress shoes offered little in the way of traction and he ended up flat on his back and out cold. When he came to, he'd been momentarily confused. John phoned Lestrade to follow up on their lead and then insisted they return to the flat.

"You probably have a slight concussion and now you need to rest." Sherlock glared at him. "Doctor's orders. Now get changed while I put the kettle on."

With a cup of tea in each hand, John headed to Sherlock's room. By now Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his bed in his favorite striped pajama pants and blue dressing gown.

"Here," John handed him one of the cups, "two sugars, just how you like it."

"Now what?"

John settled into the chair across from the bed, "Now you drink your tea and then go to sleep."

"Yes, _mummy_." It's was John's turn to glare now. "So, you're just going to sit there and watch me sleep."

"Will you go to sleep if I don't?"

This time there was no response, just quiet pouting as the young detective sipped his drink. John wrapped his hands around the warm mug. It had been bitterly cold that night and, truth be told, he was glad to be done chasing criminals and back inside. Absentmindedly he looked around the room. Over the last couple of years he'd grown to know almost every inch of it, even how to properly index Sherlock's socks. Many items were still a mystery to him, but he knew all of their places if not their meanings. His eye's fell on the framed paper above Sherlock's bed. He had no idea what language it was in or what it meant.

"First rank dan certificate, Judo."

"What's that, like a black belt or something?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"You have a black belt in Judo?"

Sherlock didn't reply and returned to his tea. Since his friend seemed to be in somewhat of a talkative mood John tried another object, "And the sword? Are you a fencing expert too?"

"Don't be silly John, it was a gift," another sip, "and I'm not an expert."

John decided to ignore the last comment. "Someone just gave you mounted sword? Who gives gifts like that?"

"A client."

"Kind of a useless gift."

"It's more useful than a tie pin or pair of cufflinks."

John snorted, "For what, fighting off intruders in our flat?"

Sherlock shrugged and held out his cup for John to take. His friend obliged and took both to kitchen to be washed up later. When he returned Sherlock was laying in bed with the covers tucked under his arms, eyes closed, and fingers tapping out an unheard melody on his chest. John returned to his chair.

"And the big drawing of a bee?"

"For heaven sakes John, I thought you were supposed to be letting me sleep, not grilling me on my personal belongings. I found it in an old book years ago. I like bees, they have a fascinating society and hierarchy. You should read about them sometime." He huffed, pulled the covers closer and resumed tapping out the song in his head.

"Right, I'll let you go to sleep."

John turned off the lights in the room one by one, except the nearest lamp. He grabbed his book from the living room and settled in for a few hours reading.

***

John started awake. Immediately he looked at his watch, almost four hours had past. He sat upright in the chair looking around for his book. He found it on the floor beside his feet, it must have slid off his lap as he slept. He stood stiffly and went to the bedside. Sherlock was sleeping soundly, mouth open with even breathes. The doctor put a hand on his shoulder and gently shook him.

"John!"

"It's just me, Sherlock, I'm right here. How are you feeling?"

"I was feeling fine sleeping until you woke me up."

"Sherlock, I..."

"The date is Feb 7th, the prime minister is David Cameron, the mayor of London is Boris Johnson, and you have a sore neck from sleeping in that chair. Now leave me alone."

"Alright," He walked across the room and turned off the last remaining lamp. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John," he mumbled into his pillow, "and thank you."

John smiled and quietly shut the door behind him.


	4. Moving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is dead and John is faced with moving on.

John gathered the last box of his belongings and set it down at the top of the steps. This was it, he was going. He was leaving 221B Baker Street behind. His therapist told him he needed to move on, that leaving the rooms he'd shared with Sherlock would help bring him closure. She said he had to stop living in the past. The past, it felt like it was all he had, it consumed him. This was like coming home from Afghanistan all over again, only this time the wounds weren't visible.

He walked through the kitchen one last time, checking there was no food left that would spoil and all the dishes were clean. Molly had come by and taken Sherlock's specimens and experiments so Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have to deal with the body parts. The table was still cluttered with test tubes, books, and notes, just like Sherlock left them. Mycroft told both John and Mrs. Hudson not to worry and he would take care of his brother's effects later.

Of course John had taken a few items to remember Sherlock by, small things. Mycroft would probably notice, he was a Holmes after all, but John didn't think he would care. Even if he did, John had no doubt Mycroft would know where to find him. Safely tucked away in the box were a favorite brown mug, framed drawings of a pigeon and macaw, a couple of CDs, and a green damask pillow. It was a strange collection of items to take, then again, Sherlock Holmes wasn't an average man with average tastes.

John slowly walked around the corner, running his hand along the back of his favorite chair, and down the hall to Sherlock's room. He placed his hand on the door knob. John closed his eyes, he could picture everything inside, neatly in its place. He hadn't gone in since that day. _What if it was different? What if there was some clue to why Sherlock decided to do what he did?_ His grip tightened on the knob. _What if his clothes from the night before were still crumpled on the floor? What if his dressing gown was still thrown carelessly across the bed? What if he was in there, waiting for John to open the door, to reveal his big surprise? Ha ha, it had all been a terrible joke._

_What if..._

_What if..._

_What if..._

John released the door knob. He took several deep breathes, struggling to hold back the tears that were building in his chest. He couldn't do this anymore. He didn't know what the future held but right now, he could barely deal with the present and he couldn't live in the past any longer. Sherlock Holmes was dead and he would never be the same again.

John picked up the final box and went downstairs. He set his keys on the table in the entryway for Mrs. Hudson to find later and opened the door to the bustling street. John Watson was leaving 221B Baker Street behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Chopin's solo for violin is a reference to something Holmes mentions in A Study in Scarlet in the ACD canon. According to the notes in my book, Chopin didn't actually write a solo work for violin.


End file.
